


A Miami Yankee In King Arthur's Court

by bunnygum (orphan_account)



Category: Dexter (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Airports, Eurostar, F/M, France - Freeform, Jack the Ripper - Freeform, London, Miami, Murder, Public Transportation, Thriller
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-29 20:59:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3910465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/bunnygum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paris wasn't the only place Dexter stopped by on his journey to kill Lyla. Encountering flight cancellations due to weather, Dexter visits the city his father had once promised to take him to. London. However, a thrilling crime attracts Dexter to a case without a man of his expertise. Just like Sherlock, he chooses to become a sideline detective. A psychopath with his sinister outlook and an abnormal deducter with as little emotion as himself both become curious subjects in his London experience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Miami Yankee In King Arthur's Court

A soft, tingly chill went through his stomach. It was a glorious feeling. A climax to a day in the air, sickened by the atmosphere of coach, the ambivalent reactions he had to a baby's decision to cry, despite the calm and collected state the rest of the passengers were in. Though he wasn't hungry, and hadn't been on the plane, he ate a bag of peanuts to give him enough energy for his release. That is, the release of his dreaded mood. The lead up was completely worth it to get his sweet, pleasurable vengeance. The apartment was like someone handing him a million dollars. It was too good to be true, yet he had succeeded without a problem. Lyla, like gum on the back of Dexter's shoe, was scraped away (and dragged). Though he hadn't planned the rest of his kill, Dexter was heavily relying on the nobility of a strong shovel and a clear field. Taking a train to a country town would give him an hour before he went back to Paris, boarded the plane and made his way home. It was safer than spending his night burying a body in a city of twelve million people.

 

'Votre billet, monsieur?'

The travel inspector marked his ticket and handed it back to Dexter. Little did he know, in the duffle bag beside him was his ex girlfriend. It was at times like these he felt like stroking one off. Of course not in the carriage! That's illegal, Jesus. Those type of thoughts weren't serious. What Dexter meant when he thought about masturbating in the restroom stall, or even if he had time after the burying of the body. It was now eight thirty, an hour since he had killed Lyla, and twenty minutes since had left Paris. The nearest town was of vast fields, dairy farmers and Sunday markets. A perfect place to bury her pieces. His plane wouldn't board for three hours giving him time to buy a coffee before he left. The inspector once again walked back down the aisle, eyeing Dexter suspiciously and his bag. After all, there were only five other people in the carriage. An American man sitting with his loyal girlfriend was the worst of the inspector's worries. 

 

Drenched with the thick, muddy clay and soil from Lyla's grave, Dexter dabbed himself with wet toilet paper from a public restroom near the train station. Though France was a wonderful country, he had only traveled there to take care of the woman. Now that this was finished, Dexter was homeward bound. His boot were clear pieces of evidence that could incriminate him but at that point he didn't suspect someone would be analysing the pieces of grass stuck to his boots. He had a smoky taste in his mouth from the fog of the marsh he buried Lyla in. It was a strange environment for him. Significantly contrasting Miami, however, the man sitting across from him on the train back to Paris looked as sly and perverted as Masuka. He was tempted to take a photo with his cellphone to show to him when he returned home. 

'Arrivant prochainement à Paris.' The speaker sounded. 

In terms of belongings, Dexter had brought nothing other than his wallet, passport, and phone. He had always been taught to be resourceful with as little things as possible. Cluttered luggage was a cluttered mind. Anything he urgently needed was bought in Paris, like his knife, and anything he didn't need was dumped in the river. Like his knife. 

 

Dexter caught the ten o'clock bus to the Charles de Gaulle and traveled among the weary, drunken French that had boarded with him. He couldn't complain. It smelt less of semen and an artificial TV dinner than the average Miami bus would, but then again, Dexter had only taken the bus when he was too desperate to stay hidden and too illegal to walk to the docks. Arriving at the airport was a relief, because frankly Dexter wanted to get home as soon as possible. He was surprised by this notion, since he was in what some would call the greatest city in the world, and the most romantic at that. He realised that being Paris, it was quite unorthodox that he had visited Paris to kill a woman and not to take Rita on a luxurious vacation. The relief of entering the airport was somewhat jolted when he saw the crowd of people standing, wandering and lying around the terminal. Flights had been delayed. Strong, hurricane force winds coming in from the west. Dexter sighed as anyone would to something pleasant, but he sighed as though it didn't bother him. But it was bothering him. He shut his mouth, pursing his lips and lined up behind the many angry people demanding information from the check in desk.

'The eleven o'clock Paris to the MIA the Miami-' There were hundreds of other people talking and shouting. 'With Virgin. Virgin. Sir?'

'Yes sir, unfortunately that has also been delayed. At this point there is nothing we can do but we will keep the terminal updated.'

'Do you know when this will all go over?'

'We are currently having this programmed on the monitors around the terminal Sir.'

'Yeah thanks.' He tapped the desk and took a brochure from the stand. Thankfully Dexter knew his meteorology, being a man of the sea. Strong gusts were moving across from the Atlantic, sweeping over Spain and Portugal. If Dexter was to do anything it was to stay away from the crowds. He didn't want to remain trapped among strangers for however long. A nightcrawler without a car, he decided to leave the airport and remove himself from the setting of taxis picking up passengers, porters carrying luggage and trolley carts rolling in from the parking lots. How ironic that Dexter was so desperate to leave Paris. It was possible though. In fact, it was.

* * *

 

'He was... I'm like him, aren't I?' Another possible note from the notorious Jack the Ripper had been discovered in an abandoned archives centre in London. Harry loomed over Dexter, who was sitting calmly on the sofa, and took the remote control from him.

'I'm like him.'

Harry turned it off. 'Of course not Dexter. He was evil. Villainous. He killed innocent people.' He sounded so knowledgeable, as he always did when it came to murdering. 

'And that could be me one day? Killing innocent people?' Dexter was confused and frustrated; upset with the ways his urges and dark desires could be abused. Harry reassuringly placed a hand on his shoulder, giving Dexter warmth and easing his worries.

'I won't let you become that Dexter. And I know you won't let  _yourself_ become that. You're not a monster Dexter.'

'... That's where he killed all those people? London?'

'Far away from Miami.'

'Mum always said she wanted to go to London.'

'I know Dexter. One day you, Deb and I will go there. The three of us.' He rubbed Dexter's shoulder and pulled away.

* * *

 

Vacations were a distant dream, but in the case of reviving memories of his adoptive mother Dexter respected himself for having the desire. His father hadn't exactly been a faithful husband to her, and even when she was sick he couldn't bring himself to give her a release from it all. The words 'EuroStar' came to mind. A train travelling from Paris to London. A mystical journey defeating Dexter's boundaries of travel. He wasn't one for random decisions, but he was fine with a change of heart. He accepted it, and that made him just a bit happier. Dexter had changed from the seedy atmosphere of Miami to the pleasant atmosphere of France. Change was rare for him; the lifted weight of Lyla had definitely eased his stress. So, it was decided. Dexter was going to London. 


End file.
